The news spread like wildfire:
The Sovereign Trials had begun.
From the tallest mountains to the deepest valleys, every fighter, cultivator, and adventurer with a shred of ambition heard the decree.
Only those who passed the trials would be granted authority, resources, and the right to cultivate in the newly constructed Cultivation Towers.
The world turned bloodthirsty overnight.
In every city, vast arenas were raised — simple stone rings, blazing desert fields, brutal forest gauntlets. No rules. No mercy. No second chances.
Victory or death.
Strength or oblivion.
Zairon sat upon his iron throne, watching through crystal mirrors the scenes unfolding across the territories.
Fighters clashed with desperate roars, spirit energy erupting in savage bursts.
Old friends turned enemies, sects collapsed, kingdoms fractured — all under the Sovereign's silent gaze.
He leaned forward, his eyes glowing with a feral light.
This was exactly what he wanted.
"Good," he muttered. "Let madness temper their souls."
Meanwhile, construction of the Crimson Fangs proceeded with terrifying speed.
Handpicked by Zairon himself, the first batch of soldiers — those who had passed near-impossible tests of survival and loyalty — knelt before him.
Their armor was deep black edged in crimson, their faces hidden behind snarling dragon masks.
Each carried a weapon bathed in madness-infused energy, their bodies exuding the faint hum of suppressed insanity.
Zairon walked among them, inspecting his new blades.
He smirked.
"You are no longer men," he said softly. "You are extensions of my will. Go — cull the weak. Crush rebellion. Enforce my madness."
The Crimson Fangs rose as one, their voices thundering:
"Glory to the Mad Sovereign!"
Yet not all was perfect.
Across the seas, in the hidden corners of the world, resistance festered.
Old kings and forgotten sects whispered of rebellion, of restoring the 'order' Zairon had shattered.
And so, the next phase of madness began.
Zairon summoned his most trusted commanders.
"The Cultivation Towers must be protected. Let the strong ascend. Let the fools die. As for those who plot behind my back..."
His smile widened.
"Let's give them a taste of despair."
In secret, a list was drawn — names of suspected traitors, rebels, and cowards.
The Purge would follow.
That night, Zairon returned to his private cultivation chamber.
Before him hovered a single glowing sigil: the path to the next level of power, closer to the SSS realm he yearned for.
He placed a hand over his heart.
His madness whispered, tempting him to burn the world.
But he laughed — a low, wild sound echoing through the stone halls.
"No... not yet. First, I must perfect this world.
Then, I'll shatter the next."
His cultivation surged, veins glowing faintly under his skin.
The ground trembled.
The Mad Sovereign was not satisfied with ruling the world —
He was preparing to own existence itself.